


Fine

by Ephemera_pop (Alex_Draven)



Category: Popslash
Genre: Eating Disorders, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-25
Updated: 2005-07-25
Packaged: 2018-10-16 19:27:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10577955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alex_Draven/pseuds/Ephemera_pop
Summary: When he opens his eyes the face in the mirror looks calm, focussed, still a little soft around the chin, but that’s hardly news. There are more important things to work on right now, like how to get himself out of the bathroom in their suite and down to the hotel gym when he can still hear Justin moving around the room outside.  Listening to make sure Lance doesn’t throw up, probably. It’s worse than being under house arrest.The whole situation is just insane. He eats, and whatever Justin’s accused him off, he doesn’tmakehimself vomit. He’s not some anorexic teenager, and at moments like this, it feels pretty insulting that his boyfriend seems to think he is. Lance can remember a time when ‘you want to hit the weight room with me?’ would have been a good thing to say, only somewhere along the line apparently that changed, and while it’s ok for Mr Timberlake of the perfect six pack, if  it’s Lance asking it must be symptomatic of some kind of pathology.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://fic-requests.livejournal.com/profile)[**fic_requests**](http://fic-requests.livejournal.com/) , with many thanks to [](http://ephemera-pop.livejournal.com/5851.html#)[**nospeud**](http://ephemera-pop.livejournal.com/5851.html#) and [](http://northernveil.livejournal.com/profile)[**northernveil**](http://northernveil.livejournal.com/) for bouncing ideas and so on.

“Jesus, Justin! – and you think I’m the one who’s crazy obsessive?”

“Yes. Yes I do, and you’re going to hurt yourself! Just – please - leave it be for a …”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake! Can you even hear yourself? I’m fine. I just want to go to the fucking gym instead of sitting here, waiting for the great almighty rock star to get round to having a few minutes to see me!”

Angry, unfair words, and somewhere in the back of his mind Lance realises his reaction was out of proportion, but the panic pounding in his blood won’t let him relax until there’s a door hard against his back. He really really does not want to talk about …. whatever this is. Justin’s paranoid delusion that he’s somehow managed to sell to half of everyone.

Thinking about the phone calls, the visits, the concerned faces and blank looks isn’t much better either, so he focuses on breathing, one hand splayed on the smooth paint of the door, the other over his diaphragm, where he can feel the muscles under his skin. Breath in. Breath out.

When he opens his eyes the face in the mirror looks calm, focussed, still a little soft around the chin, but that’s hardly news. There are more important things to work on right now, like how to get himself out of the bathroom in their suite and down to the hotel gym when he can still hear Justin moving around the room outside. Listening to make sure Lance doesn’t throw up, probably. It’s worse than being under house arrest.

The whole situation is just insane. He eats, and whatever Justin’s accused him off, he doesn’t _make_ himself vomit. He’s not some anorexic teenager, and at moments like this, it feels pretty insulting that his boyfriend seems to think he is. Lance can remember a time when ‘you want to hit the weight room with me?’ would have been a good thing to say, only somewhere along the line apparently that changed, and while it’s ok for Mr Timberlake of the perfect six pack, if it’s Lance asking it must be symptomatic of some kind of pathology. He doesn’t think he was that much of a slug before he went away.

Lance leans over to flush the toilet, listening carefully, and the trapped feeling butterflying in his ribcage only strengthens when, sure enough, all motion stops in the bedroom. Anger twined with nausea hits the back of his throat. Jesus.

Justin’s taken to going through Lance’s wash-bag, so he’d timed his visit for a break in the steroid cycle, and he hadn’t even brought any of his supplements with him, let alone the laxatives or anything else that might help with the acid and the heaviness in his stomach. He’ll be ok, if he can just get a proper work-out done. Not to mention that he missed a training day yesterday with the flights, but his stupid, selfish so-called lover can find fault with that too. It’s like, ever since he came back from Russia the final time, nothing he does is right and it’s making him crazy.

One of the advantages of the penthouse suite is a palatial bathroom, and while there’s not quite enough floor space for oblique curls, if he moves the towel rack … The metal stand squeals on the tile, and Justin’s footsteps stop again. Lance squeezes his eyes shut, presses his lower back into the tile floor, and concentrates on maintaining perfect form.

When he does open the bathroom door, Justin’s sitting on the bed, big hands clasped between his open legs, looking up at him with tired eyes and Lance feels like a shit for arguing with him.

“I’m sorry.”

Justin shrugs. “I shouldn’t have pushed.”

Everything feels a little distant, like the two of them are being translated somewhere and all that comes through are the empty words, a half second late.

Not knowing what might be a safe reply, Lance fiddles with the mini fridge, retrieving a bottle of water. He hates this feeling.

The water is icy, hitting the bottom of his stomach, and Justin’s hand on the back of his neck is hot, dry. The contrast makes him shiver.

“Are you sure you’re … sorry.” Justin cuts himself off, and Lance rolls his shoulders, forces himself to let the immediate tension bleed away.

“I’m fine.” Lance twists, wrapping his own arms around Justin’s narrow waist, the perfect muscles and perfect bones. “Really. You can stop worrying, ok? No problem here.”

************************************


End file.
